Berserk: Dreamland
by Morte Mistrata
Summary: It is very rare that Guts dreams, but when he does, it's a beautiful nightmare. One shot. Lemon.


Sometimes Guts would dream. Those were rare times, for he rarely slept long enough or deep enough to do so. Men with the eyes of monsters would watch as he fought aimlessly, uselessly against the never ending waves of combatants. Guts knew how useless it was to fight them, for even when he was experiencing them, he knew that he was asleep. It was the other dreams that he worried about having.

They came less often, but were harder to see through. He was never sure of reality until he woke up again, hand having unconsciously grasped Dragonslayer while he was in the throes of sleep.

As he opened his eyes, he automatically noticed the warmth of her beside him. Guts traced her curves, just barely visible in the dim lighting. He sat up slightly, being careful to not disturb her as she slept, her back pressed to his chest. Their tent was same size as it was when it was solely his,but now seemed to be twice as small. It was warm too, and he was grateful for that, as the snow outside had not stopped falling. A couple tents away, Griffith was planning, the midnight oil burning as he worked to get back to Charlotte faster; sometimes Guts wasn't sure if it was because he was using her, or if he actually enjoyed her company. It didn't matter all that much to him, Guts decided as he pulled the fur blanket higher. As long as he was able to keep swinging his sword with his woman by his side, it didn't matter what Griffith's motives were. Hell, they could be fighting Midland and it wouldn't matter.

As his name ran across his mind, a shudder ran through his body, a sense of disgust at the peripheral of his mind. He shook it off.

Casca murmured something in her sleep that he couldn't hear and Guts smiled. She had certainly mellowed out since the first time that they had met. She was still feisty and would still fight beside him on the battlefield, but he was finding it hard to remember their last real fight. Somehow he was finding it harder to rile her up when it came to war. Less that got her mad, he supposed.

"Good morning." Casca mumbled into his shoulder, using his mass to warm her smaller body.

He chuckled. "Not even close. Dawn's not for a couple more hours."

"Are you sure?" She asked, a smile playing at her lips as her hand traced the muscles on his chest down to the area above his crotch. He could feel the warm feeling of arousal begin to bloom, as his penis came to attention in anticipation of what would inevitably happen next.

"Positive."

Casca wrapped her arms around him as he lifted her out of their bed, the blanket falling to the side. One hand gripped her taut ass as he buried his face in her chest, taking the time to bring each nipple to attention. She squeaked as he pulled away, a line of spit connecting them before he reached between her legs to stroke the wet slit. Guts couldn't say what he enjoyed more, making her come, or coming with her. It didn't matter, he supposed. He would accomplish both.

Her body tensed as he pushed two thick fingers into her, the other hand keeping her upright as he worked at her tits again. As her body shuddered, her vagina clenched over his hand, once, twice, three times before she exhaled deeply, her orgasm finished. Guts didn't give her time to recover, knowing that her stamina was on par with his. Aligning her opening with his penis, he plunged hilt deep into her. Working a steady rhythm, he moved back and forth as he grew closer to finishing.

It was times like these, when he was inside of her or with her that he sometimes wished for a simpler life without war, without the constant threat of death for the both of them. But he knew that neither of them could leave. Casca because of her love for Griffith, because she was his sword. And Guts couldn't because the sword was all he knew, the only thing that he worked towards, other than her. So he settled for this, the only normal thing he would ever posses.

As the room seemed to double in heat, he ejecaulated into her, warm seed spreading into her womb. He wondered if it would ever take hold.

And that's when he'd remember. Another thing that felt wrong. She had a child before, didn't she? A monstrous child, it was.

His body slacked and she looked up at him, confusion written on her face. "What's wrong? Do you remember where you are?"

He looked down at her, skin flushed and moist. Another image flashed through his mind. Her face in agony as Griffith, no, the Hawk, took her in front of him as the corpses of the Raiders were ravaged around him.

Guts looked down at her again, concern having replaced her earlier expression. "Guts?"

"It's nothin'. Don't worry about it." He said as he pulled out. He would've had another go, for they both could've done it; their usual bout included at least three to four sessions.

Pulling the blanket over them once more, he leaned down on his side and draped one arm over her. He closed his eyes and saw the sun blotted out by the eclipse. He heard the screams of his soldiers once more.

It all came crashing down. This was fake. Casca was broken, not whole and feisty like she was now. He didn't have an arm and was blind in one eye. Griffith was...

His eyes popped open. The sky above him was a dark russet orange. The sun was just setting. His brand was bleeding slowly, and he knew that he would have to fight soon. As the last remains of his dream disappeared, he frowned. This was the dream he hated the most: the one he would never have.


End file.
